The Substantiality of Dreams
by Feanor the Dragon
Summary: This is the story of a boy with eyes to see. Not just to see as you or I see, but to see the world as it really is; to see the world-lines and the flow of life. Follow him as he discovers why he might see what others cannot. This is a 100 Cupbords Fanfic. I suck at summeries, so please take a look. Please R&R.
1. Chapter 1

**Preface: Some Day…**

I am not crazy… no more so than anyone else, at least.

I do see things that no one else does, but the things that I see are always there. Substantial. _Real_. My mother says that I am just more in tune with nature than most people… but the look on her face reveals that that is just a kinder way of saying that I am insane.

The things that I see… grey, hooded figures in the woods at night, wolves that speak, serpents woven of shadow – each first in a dream, and then in waking – they… they are, indeed, very real.

No one ever believed me, so I learned a long time ago to keep it to myself… If only to avoid the psychiatrists… but I only tried once to convince myself that they weren't real – that there was nothing there.

…And I have an ugly scar to show for it.

I keep my distance now. I know that these things are dangerous. But I still watch them from afar. I cannot stay away. I feel drawn to these phantoms that lie in the myths and legends and long-forgotten faerie tales of men. One day , I will know why it is that only I may see them. Until then, I suppose that, in a way, I am insane.

…But what is sanity except the fetters that bind the mind to a plain of reality on which it does not belong?

One day, I will know why I am the way that I am.

One day… I will be free.


	2. Chapter 2

**Ch. 1**

**Premonitions and Preludes**

The boy ran like heck. He didn't know why, he didn't know what from. He just knew that he had to get away from _**something**_. And so he ran.

Turning a corner, he skidded to a stop and found himself face-to-face with a man holding a long, evil-looking knife. The man wore a twisted grin on his face as he spoke something unintelligible and stepped toward the boy.

The boy tried to run, he tried to step back… to move at all, but he found himself rooted to the spot as the man drew nearer. The man raised his knife, and, if it were possible, his grin became even more twisted. Somewhere in the distance, a crow sounded its call; as if to herald coming death.

Moonlight danced on malice-wreathed steel. A biting wind, tasting of frost and blood, blew across two faces – one jovial, one terrified.

The knife came down. The boy screamed.

He screamed and sat up, straight and stiff as a board, in his bed. He was panting and clutching his chest, sweat beaded in icy droplets on his forehead. It took him a moment to realize that it had only been a dream.

He sighed.

These nightmares were becoming more and more frequent. He was beginning to think that they meant something. He knew it was ludicrous. But still…

He sighed again as his heart-rate returned to normal and the adrenaline in his blood started to run down. Then, he turned his lamp on, swung his feet over the edge of the bed, and stood up. Walking over to his bookshelf, he grabbed a book and opened it to the marked page. As he walked back across his room to his bed, he noticed the clock said that it was midnight.

Once again, he sighed.

He knew he wasn't going to get any more sleep after having that dream. He never did. And what sleep he did get, was always troubled by worse dreams. And so, he sat on his bed and got comfortable.

It was going to be a long night.

**A/N: Thanks to Agent of Empathy and Travelling Master for reading and reviewing! You guys are great!**

**I made some changes to my story. Some are plot-relevant, while others are merely to improve the narration.**

**THANKS FOR READING!**

**-**_**Feanor**_

_**7-5-12**_


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N: This chapter came much quicker than expected. Special thanks to Travelling Master for his awesome ideas and contribution. This chapter would be impossible without him.**

**Ch. 2**

**A Curse of a Gift**

Derik was asleep in his book. For once, he had slipped into a mercifully dreamless slumber. Then, something made him stir, some feeling of uneasiness – a discomfort in the three-slash-mark scar that ran diagonally from left to right across his right eye.

Opening his eyes and lifting his head off of the now drool-soaked pages, Derik looked across the room blankly. He blinked; trying to clear his vision.

He blinked again. This time, he rubbed his eyes.

But it didn't disappear. The cloaked and hooded figure was still standing there, in his doorway. His previously _locked_ bedroom door hung open. The figure was blurry, as if shrouded from sight, but it was there nonetheless.

For a brief moment, a cold knife of steely fear wrenched its way through Derik's gut. But this was not the figure from his dreams. Was it?

Derik forced his eyes to relax, and, slipping into what he had dubbed his "second sight," he could see the figure clearly, despite the magic that he knew must have hid the man from any other eyes. Derik began to scrutinize the figure, while he slowly inched his right hand under his pillow; groping for the large, survival-knife that he kept there.

"There will be no need for that, young Guardian," the man said with a calm voice like slow wind in great trees, as he threw back his hood to reveal grey-golden, short-cropped hair and two eyes like pale topaz, "If I had intended to hurt you, I would already have done so. Don't you think?"

"Frequently." Derik said sarcastically as his fingers found the knife and curled around the textured steel of its handle. He set the book down on his bed with his left hand, closing it softly.

The man stepped slowly forward. Strong arms moved briefly into view beneath his dark grey cloak.

Derik caught the glint of steel. His right arm tensed, ready to lash out from beneath his pillow.

"Stay back." he growled.

"You do not act as though you truly want the answers that I have heard you pray for so very many times as you sit in this room alone." the man said, stopping and standing about half-way between Derik and the door. His voice, strangely enough, reminded Derik of a creek in the woods… a creek that Derik had once spent most of his time at.

"How long have you been watching me?" Derik asked defensively.

A smile tugged at the edge of the man's face. An almost… fond smile.

"Dear child, you have watched me for longer than I have watched you. Do you not remember? You would often follow me into the woods during the summer. I at first thought nothing of it. You were but a little tyke then, and it seemed as though you did not notice me."

Images flashed through Derik's mind, images long forgotten. The hooded figures, he'd followed them into the woods when he was five or six, simply out of curiosity at first. After doing this many times, however, he found that he saw things. Marvelous things. Things that appear only in fairy tales. Gryphons, fire salamanders, foxes with wings… He could see them. Better still, they seemed unaware that he could see them; often paying him little heed, if any.

Soon even more wonderful things began to happen to him. He could feel the joy of the field in bloom, and perceive and share in the hope of winter snows. Wolves howled, and he understood their speech. And often, would he sit by that creek, and understand the joyfulness of the song of the water as it caressed the stones, or listen to the stories of long-forgotten times whispered by the trees as the summer breeze kissed their leaves.

Then… Then had come the attack. He ventured too close to a nest of particularly large fire lizards. The creatures had defended their homes, and when he was found, he was unconscious. The event had left him babbling madness and insanity in a hospital bed for a week. And he had never healed emotionally.

As these thoughts flashed through his mind, far quicker than I might write them or you might read them, his left hand reached up involuntarily and his fingers traced the slash-marks across his eye.

"Yes," the man said, "You remember. Yes… You weren't supposed to know. You weren't supposed to _see_. But you did. Fate, it seems, deemed you worthy of more than a life in ignorance. Fate has given you a great gift. You have been given eyes to see."

"If it is a gift…" the boy said, his right hand loosening from the knife despite his remaining wariness.

"Then it is a curse of a gift."

The man's only reply was a wry smile.

**A/N: Well, there is chapter two. I am really enjoying writing this stuff!**

**Please R&R!**

**Thanks to all of those who have reviewed/PMed! You guys make my day!**

**-**_**Feanor**_

**I have made some edits to this chapter as well as the first two. Some of them are story relevant while others are merely to improve the narration.**

**THANKS FOR READING!**

**-**_**Feanor**_

_**7-5-12**_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: PART FOUR! WOOHOOOO!**

**Thanks to Travelling Master for giving such wonderful ideas! You made this story possible!**

**Special thanks also to the anonymous reviewers "Tiger Jaws" and "Pippin" for your reviews! I know you guys personally, and so I can and will thank you in person… But I feel that I shall give thanks to whom thanks is due here as well.**

**Thanks to Agent of Empathy for reviewing as well!**

**Thanks to anyone else who has reviewed! Seriously! You guys make my day! :D**

**Now then… ON WITH THE SHOW!**

**Ch. 3**

**Marked**

"A curse… a _curse_?" the man said in a surprised tone, as if Derik had just stated that bacon grew on trees, "No, boy, 'tis not a curse-"

But he was cut off.

"Then what is it! Tell me! What good does it do me? I cannot know what is real and what isn't! I cannot tell dream from reality! I am nearly – NO! I AM insane because of this 'gift!' So how! How is it not a curse?"

The man sighed. "Why do you not trust me?" he asked. His voice sounded almost… hurt?

Derik was caught off guard by this, and answered only with silence. Why didn't he trust this man? Did he even have a reason?

Noting Derik's silence, the man took the opportunity to speak again. Spreading his open-palmed hands out, the man said, "Look at me, boy. Really look. Look into my eyes, and read them. I will hide nothing from you, but you must ask in order to be answered."

Derik obeyed. He quieted his mind, and looked. He looked at the man's face, and as silver met topaz, he thought that he felt a connection. A mutual understanding flickered between them, and, somehow, Derik knew. He knew that he could trust this man with his life. He brought his right hand out from beneath the pillow, and set his knife down beside him.

Derik relaxed as he continued to stare into the man's eyes. This was peace. Pure and untainted. He felt safe – completely safe – for the first time in a long time. Sighing, Derik broke eye contact and decided on the first question he would ask.

"Who are you?" he asked.

"Thorin is my name, boy… I am a Guardian."

"Guardian? …Of what?" Derik asked.

"Of all that carries life in its veins, or cherishes the touch of the sun's light, or would strive by the true path to be pure." Thorin said. His eyes sparkled fondly as he continued, "I am a Guardian of all that is good; as are you, dear child."

"What?" Derik asked, clearly bemused.

"You are a Guardian. That is why you might see that which is hidden from others." came the reply.

Derik found himself unable to understand… but, suddenly, a different question seemed more pressing.

"Guardian against what? From what do you protect that which you protect?"

Thorin's expression became taught, his eyes dimmed to sulfur as if laden suddenly with great woe and worry. He lowered his hands to his sides and shook his head. He no longer looked at Derik, but stared just above him, as if gazing into the deepest pits of oblivion itself.

"No… He is not ready…" he mumbled, as if to another who was not present, yet might still hear, "…He is still fragile of mind; such knowledge would crush his spirit… it is too great. The burden is still too heavy; he must first be trained up with strength to bear it."

Thorin's eyes lowered again to meet Derik's. His expression shifted back to one of fondness, but his eyes shone with something different… pity?

"You cannot yet understand, but you will. Do not worry; you will know in time."

And with that, he turned to walk away.

"Wait!" Derik shouted, "Thorin, wait!"

To Derik's immense relief, Thorin turned to face him once more. On his face was a hint of a smile – a proud looking smile. Like that of a father whose son has completed some great task on his own, without instruction.

"What is it?"

"How will I know that this was not a dream?"

Thorin walked over to Derik's bed, his stride relaxed yet confident. A knowing smile now clearly etched across his features. Derik vaguely comprehended that his face seemed both wizened and careworn, and yet very young. Silver met topaz once more, and Derik felt immersed in a comfort that he did not understand, yet, he perceived that it needed no understanding.

"Dear child, we shall meet again. Soon. But in the mean time, you shall know by the evidence of a gift." As he spoke, Thorin drew back his cloak from his left side and began to unbuckle one of two scabbards from his belt. Lifting the sheathed sword in both hands, Thorin turned the ornate hilts toward Derik.

"Take it, it is yours," he said with a fatherly sort of fond pride shining in his voice, "It was always meant for you. Now, at long last, you are nearly ready to wield it."

Derik reached forward mutely and grasped the offered handle of the sword with his right hand. When his fingers wrapped around it, he was surprised to feel not the cold of lifeless steel, but warmth; warmth as it were inherent to the very weapon itself. He grasped harder, and pulled it half-free from the scabbard. He gasped as life and strength both pure and wholesome flowed from the sword into him, seeming to laugh joyously as it passed through his palm and coursed through his veins.

Taking the scabbard in his left hand and re-sheathing the sword, Derik looked at his right palm, gawking. There, clear as the light of the sun itself, a mark in the shape of a small dragon shone in jovial flame.

"Dear young one, you were marked long ago, but only now has it shown forth; realizing your destiny at the touch of life-given steel."

Thorin's golden eyes twinkled jovially in the light of the fire in Derik's palm.

"Dear child… You are a Guardian! Fire flows through your veins!"


	5. Chapter 5

A shrill noise blared through the stillness to shatter dreamless slumber, filling the boy's mind with rapidly changing images of chaos and disorder – despite its steady, rhythmic beat – until it finally pulled him into half-consciousness. Instinctively, Derrick's arm swung with practiced aim to strike the source of the sound as he groaned and turned a disapproving glare toward the offending alarm clock through shut eyelids. Muttering unintelligible protest, he was nearly asleep again before his hand was back in his lap. His eyes shot open in shock, however, when, instead of his hand coming to rest upon the fabric of his clothing, only the hard coldness of steel met his fingers.

Derrick's posture became rigid, frozen like stone, his stunned gaze locked upon the magnificent weapon that lay sheathed in his lap, glinting contentedly in the soft sunlight that cast itself warmly into the room. For several minutes, he simply stared, hardly daring to breathe, at the sword; afraid that if he blinked or looked away, it would disappear. Listlessly, his fingers traced the paths of the intricate designs that wound delicately across the scabbard like vines of ivy until they found their way to the hilt of the sword, where his touch lingered briefly before passing over the handle and caressing the pommel almost lovingly.

Finally, he allowed himself to blink, and did so several times, as if expecting the thing he was beholding to have vanished into nonexistence each time he opened his eyes. Yet, the sword stubbornly stayed, refusing to leave. It was, indeed, as real and substantial as the scars that marred his face. Elation replaced shock as it fully dawned on Derrick just what this meant. It was real! It was all real!

He wasn't crazy. He had really seen what he had seen, and he had truly been paid that strange visit by that mysterious man the night before… Just as he truly had that wonderful steel-wrought work of a weapon sitting before him at that very moment, now seeming to gleam and shine with all the brightness of the many glories of Heaven above.

Taking up the sword and sliding off of his bed, he grasped the handle, once more feeling the rush of life and strength as his sword seemed to bid him a good morning, and pulled the weapon from its scabbard with a triumphant shout of newfound hope. He didn't care who heard the cry, or what sort of institution it might land him in. Nothing mattered in that instant save the steel grasped in his hand, the hope and meaningfulness that it brought to him, and breath and life itself.

Gently setting the scabbard aside, Derrick began to examine the blade itself with beaming eyes, paying closer attention to the striking scrollwork which had been intricately engraved into the steel. Lines of fire wound together on the blade in an eloquent braid, with tiny dragons weaving almost playfully betwixt them, adding their own fire to the braid as they worked their way toward the tip of the sword.

Joyously, yet with such a determined demeanor as might have almost seemed comical, had he been able to see himself, he swung the blade, feeling the steel hum a clear note as it sliced cleanly through the air, and then brought his left hand slowly up to grasp the handle. A cry of surprise left his lips though, when, upon his taking the weapon in both hands, a bright tongue of flame leapt up from engraved fire and danced to a soundless song upon the blade. The dragons, too, it seemed to his sight – or, perhaps, his second sight – performed upon the steel the wondrous dance of flight, each one synchronized with, yet strangely independent from the rest.

"Did I just do that?"

The words fell hollow to the ground, spoken as though he did not realize that he had had even uttered them aloud.

For quite some time, he stood there, mesmerized by the mirth that moved gracefully and mysteriously before him, as if beckoning him to join the fiery creatures upon the blade in their merriment. Outside, the sun was well on its way in its path across the sky when, at last, Derrick reluctantly dropped his left hand to his side, and the fire dissipated, leaving only dancing dragons amid engraved flames glowing upon the sword – as if the steel were still content to display its joy at its master's touch.

Not having the heart to hide the weapon's mirth beneath its sheath just yet, the boy set it tenderly upon his bed, and then began to search through his closet. As he pulled on a clean shirt and pair of pants, he toyed briefly with the idea of buckling the sword to his belt, but thought better of it. Instead, setting his old, army external-frame backpack on the floor beside his bed, he wrapped the scabbard in a wool blanket and strapped it to the backpacks frame so that it would be nestled between his back and the bag when he had it on, and then strapped his hatchet beside it. After lacing up his hiking boots and stuffing some extra clothing, a jacket, and a coat into the backpack before slinging it over his shoulder, he walked quietly out of his room and began to creep down the stairs, praying silently that his mother was still asleep, or else still in her bedroom.

Several heart-stoppingly creaky stairs and one short hallway later, he breathed out a sigh of relief as he stepped into an empty kitchen. Setting his pack on the floor, he fumbled around in the pantry and rifled through the cabinets and drawers as silently as he could manage until he had collected a jar of peanut butter, several Clif bars, and six or seven packets of oatmeal; all of which he stuffed into his pack next to his mess kit, while book of matches and a small kitchen lighter were placed among a few other such items in a ziplock bag and nestled beside his knife and first-aid kit in the outer pouch.

Remembering one last thing after fastening all of the closures on his backpack, Derrick took a steel water bottle from one of the cabinets and filled it, then sat down to a hasty bowl of cereal. Upon putting the milk back into the fridge, he broke out into a hearty laugh as he read a note upon the door which he had failed to notice until that moment.

Derrick,

I went to the Richardson's to help sort through old photographs so Mrs. Richardson could finally get some of those scrapbooks started that she has been talking about doing for ages.

I won't be back until 4 or 5 or so in the evening. _Please_ stay out of trouble.

– Mom

So she wasn't even here! …And there he'd thought that he'd been stealthy.

Still chuckling to himself, he grabbed a sheet of paper and a pen and began to write.

Dear Mom,

Going camping with some friends in the woods out by where Oldeck Creek meets Lewer's Stream.

Derrick

He grimaced as he wrote his little lie. He knew full well that Oldeck Creek met Lewer's Stream clear across town from where he actually intended to go. He hated having to deceive his mother, but he could hardly tell her the truth. He'd tried that with such things many times before … and it never ended well for him.

Placing the note on the refrigerator door below his mother's, he scratched his chin for a moment, then added,

P.S.: Oh, and we're out of crunchy peanut butter.

Studying both his now finished note, as well as his mother's, Derrick frowned and shook his head.

"How it is, Mom, that even your hastily scrawled notes are naturally so neat and eloquent, and yet, for all my practicing and trying hard to improve, I still have to struggle to keep my handwriting even remotely legible, is simply beyond my measure as a mere mortal to comprehend."

Had his mother been there to answer him, she'd have told him that he had inherited his father's handwriting, and Derrick laughed as he imagined her saying that very thing. Still, it bugged him that half of the time, not even he could read his own writing once he had forgotten what it said. Derrick chuckled at his own expense yet again as his mind wandered to the pencils, pens, and four notebooks that he had stuffed into his backpack along with his sketchpad and erasers.

…It also bugged him that despite all his artistic gracefulness with a pencil, his handwriting was in the laughably disgraceful state that it was.

But, forcefully shoving all such thoughts from his mind, he shouldered his pack, and adjusted the straps so that they fit comfortably. Humming a few bars of a random tune, he checked his right pant pocket to ensure that he had his pocket knife and, finding it resting faithfully in its place, he removed his hand and patted the pocket in a manner not unlike Bilbo with that troublesome ring when he walked into Bag-End for the last time.

Then, still humming the tune of a hiking song, the words of which escaped his memory – to his minor chagrin – Derrick stepped cheerfully into the mud room, snatched up his hiking stave in his left hand, placed his ball cap crisply upon his head, sprung out the back door, and rounded the corners of the house to cross the front yard before starting down the gravel road with a sprightly spring in his step.

The sun warmed his shoulders as he walked with its kind embrace while the breeze cooled him with its soft kiss. He stopped humming briefly to inhale deeply through the nose. The comforting smell of freshly cut grass mingled with trees and sun-baked hay filled his nostrils as the prideful growl of a lawnmower contested with the songs and trillings of the birds for the right to fill the boy's ears. Stopping and closing his eyes, Derrick released the breath in a happy sigh as he let the feels, sounds, and smells of early summer engulf him in their soothing familiarity. In them, he was just able to grasp a wispy tendril of the innocence that he had so long ago been stripped of. It wasn't much, hardly a willo-the-wisp of what he had once had, but still, after so much confusion and uncertain fearfulness, it was like he was actually breathing again for the first time in years.

Long-tensed muscles relaxed as his mind slowly went blank of all self-conceived thought; only comprehending the many sensations that worked themselves upon him until they had filled the entirety of his consciousness. A strange, yet soothing feeling of self-absence spread itself almost imperceptibly outward from his gut, soon blotting all control and will to have control of his body from memory. A moment later, and memory, too, was gone, drowned and forgotten amid a sea of sensations.

The world followed its slow, lethargic course around the sun, while, at the same time, the ground revolved slowly around the world's axis. Birds flitted in the trees, singing of life and mirth as the squirrels scurried restlessly through those same trees as though on a ceaseless sugar-rush, chattering the latest gossip of the forest to each other or to whatever else might have an ear to lend.

Mice skitted shyly about the underbrush of the woods, and amongst the tall grass of the fields that sprawled beside the trees, ever stealthy in their frantic rush to find food, or to hide, or to do this, and that, and every such thing. A single hawk eyed some of them hungrily, yet patiently, as she circled high above in a cloudless sea of sapphire, seeming to brush her wingtips upon the very gates of Heaven; while far below, in the top of a great, tall oak that stood alone and ancient amidst a field of gain, silently musing wise counsel to itself and to those with the wisdom to listen, she could hear her chicks cry out to her in their eager impatience.

Even beneath the ground, life thrived. Moles tunneled continually, heedless of the vengeful cries and curses of enraged farmer's wives as they delved their ever-expanding homes in search of food. Insects, also, of numberless variety, prowled about on the hunt, or hid and rested, or worked tirelessly and thoughtlessly to dig great and marvelous labyrinths beneath the ground and to stock those same tunnels with food against the coming frost.

Deep in the woods, a coyote rested in the coolness of his den, tired and hungry after an unsuccessful night of hunting, wholly oblivious to the family of rabbits that had deemed the area just outside of the entrance to his home to be a safe place to browse the clover which grew there in abundance.

Alive; all was alive. As he let himself slip further, he began to be aware of the pride and the snarky bickering and slander-casting of the blackberry thickets as they ever so slowly continued their relentless conquering and choking of all green things that had the insolence to stand in the way of their continual expansion. Many of the trees, too, spoke, but it was the elder that did, while the younger listened.

'_Don't droop, you'll not get enough sun on your leaves. Then you'll be hungry when night falls.'_

'_Let the birds be. It is a gift that they nest in your branches, to serenade you with their songs.'_

'_Move with the wind, do not fight it, it is a counselor and a schoolmaster, though it can be a harsh one at times; and if you fight it then, you shall surely break and fall to the ground as many stubborn trees have before you.'_

Others simply listened to the laughter and play of children as they chased each other about their trunks, or frolicked in their boughs. One bent old maple, being favored by a young boy as his place of peace, whispered tales of valiant deeds, and of heroes among men who rose up to stand steadfast against storms of adversity, and of faeries and elves and dragons in days long past to the child who slumbered in a fork of its trunk, dreaming of all that he was told. Derrick's mind seemed to linger on this boy. Vaguely, he sensed something special within him, and an aura of destiny hanging about his sleeping form. Still further, though, he felt; deeper into the life that sang about him. The wind breathed its breeze, and thus conversed in great, rolling whisperings with the grass. The sun beamed upon the earth with humble pride, feeling honored at having been chosen out from all the numberless stars by the Almighty Creator to shed his light and rays of warmth upon the jewel of His creation, wherein He declared that man, whom He made in His image, would dwell.

Every heartbeat, every sigh, every peal of laughter, or dream of great deeds or of peace and happiness… every single breath, was laid out openly before his mind's eye, granting that he might know all that was within his measure to know of at one time. He breathed in sync with the Earth herself, as her warring winds teetered in harmonic opposition on the edges of a score of storms. In the mountains and deep within the earth, the rocks and gems cried out to him, begging him to let them to share their secrets. He listened to these most eagerly, and, for a time, he understood perfectly, learning of things no being save God and His angels could ever have known, though he could never again remember them – for such secrets are too great for man, and must stay buried deep.

Something strangely familiar brushed his consciousness, and he drew back nearer himself to find it. Nearby, in the woods, a Hyppogryph uttered his cry as he watched over the forest with a lovingly protective eye… But that was not it. Drawing nearer still, a flash of fire, and graceful dragons weaving about within it, became known to him, and he felt it convey to him joy and hope, though it was beyond its ability to articulate and use the words to do so. Communicating further, it caused him to become aware of a different consciousness, one just as widely aware as his own, which seemed to be waiting patiently as though it had sent the other to fetch him.

The feeling of self-awareness that flooded Derrick's conscious mind at that instant was nearly overwhelming, as was the heavy nausea that struck him like a fist in the stomach at the same time, and for a brief moment, all save that was engulfed in blackness, and with it, a vague fear. He staggered slightly as he became aware once more of his own sight, hearing, and other senses, relief washing over him like a cleansing wave. The boy blinked and shook his head woozily as he tried to clear his stupor, and then looked up to see a face that he knew he recognized, but instead of memories, all that he could call to mind was a dull ache, until memories returned one by one to his recollection; first a figure, then the face… a sword – His sword! The gift! – and… a name.

"Thorin!"

"You recovered quickly for having wandered so far from yourself as you did. I am impressed."

That voice… that wasn't right…

Derrick's eyes focused further then, allowing him to see a second man, much older looking than Thorin, with jade-green eyes that shone wisely from beneath his graying locks as they scrutinized him. Derrick felt that those eyes stared straight into his very soul, but, before he could shudder at the feeling, Thorin's voice drew his attention away from the green-eyed man.

"Yes, dear boy, it is I. Though your mind was absent from your body, your feet seem to have remembered the way; since here you are."

Derrick gave him a confused look for half an instant before turning his gaze on his surroundings. He gawked.

Trees towered tall and almost lordly all about him, and among them, going to or fro between many different huts, or chopping wood, or practicing fighting off to the side, were numerous men and boys, of varying ages, all clad in loose-fitting garments of a tan, dun brown, or olive drab color. About ten yards to his right, a cliff rose up above the forest floor, crested by ash trees. All Derrick could think was that he was a long ways away from where he'd closed his eyes.

"Welcome, Derrick Dragonflare, to Ashridge."

**A/N: Hey guys! Sorry for the looooong wait… But I hope you enjoyed reading this as much as I did writing it!**

**I don't know why Derik was speaking so poetically about his handwriting… He just felt the Muse send, I suppose. *shrug***

**Please tell me what you think!**

**Anywho, IMPORTANT: I have completely forgotten how this story ties in to the 100 Cupboards series… and so, after this chapter, I will no longer be posting it on FF, but instead, I'll post it on my deviantART account. My username is "~Feanor-the-Dragon."**

**Anyway, Let me know if you liked it, or didn't like it, or if there is some way that you think it can be made better. I'm always eager to learn and improve, so all feedback is greatly appreciated.**

**I hope Y'all had a great Thanksgiving!**

**While I yet tarry in sane,**

**Feanor Ardoraad**


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